30. WAG Pants
WAG Pants
Josie
We definitely should have started kissing earlier. I’m amazed by how it makes everything instantly more enjoyable. Like magic.
Planning our day’s route over coffee? Better with kissing. (After we’ve both brushed our teeth, of course.)
Piloting the boat? Better with kissing.
Calling another boat to let them know we’re passing? Better with Wyatt’s lips grazing my neck.
Even waiting for an hourly bridge to open while fighting a wicked current is better with kissing.
Releasing more of Uncle Tom’s ashes? Okay—we didn’t kiss while doing that . But we did hug, which led to kissing later.
When we reach Savannah, our turnaround point for the trip, it starts to sink in that we’ll be heading home. But I stomp out that thought like it’s a little fire and choose to focus on my excitement about visiting the historic, romantic city I’ve heard so much about.
Doing a little touristy shopping sounds great too.
We check Jib into a doggy day care so she can spend a few hours running freely while we head to the waterfront. Thankfully, Wyatt had the foresight to bring paperwork we got from the vet.
Tugboats and a large steamboat motor past as we stroll hand in hand. Wyatt doesn’t complain once when I drag him into shops that line the cobbled street along the river. Even though it’s clear from his ever-present scowl he is not a shopping kind of man. No surprise there.
“Wyatt, you’ve got to look at this.”
“Another kind of fudge?” he asks from the doorway of the candy shop, where he’s been hovering, waiting to leave. “I think you already sampled them all. And bought several.”
“Not fudge.” I wave him over. “Come here!”
He sighs heavily but crosses the low-ceilinged shop with its wooden barrels of candy, eyes burning into me as he does.
The moment he’s close enough, he reaches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist. His fingertips lightly dance along my side.
With a sigh, I lean into his chest and he drops his chin to the top of my head.
His touch has become comfort to me. Safety. Something I can trust. And yet I’m not sure if it will ever stop making my heart race. Wyatt is the best kind of addiction.
“Now what am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks.
“This arch!” I point up toward the doorway connecting the candy shop’s two rooms.
“You called me over to look at the architecture?”
“It’s amazing, right?” I run my fingers along the brick arch, surrounded by walls made of chunky black stone with thick grout that looks like nothing used by builders today. “How old do you think this building is?”
“Vintage,” he says.
I can’t help grinning, remembering the first time he said this to me on the way to the hospital. Why does it seem like a lifetime ago?
“So it’s about your age, then?”
His light finger movements turn to tickling, and I have to dart away, almost knocking over a stand of gummy alligators in the process.
We step back out into the sunshine, me carrying a bag of fudge and a few other candies in one hand.
Wyatt insisted on buying it for me but keeps glaring at the bag.
Apparently, the man sees sugar as a mortal enemy.
While I, on the other hand, tried a sample of every kind of fudge and feel slightly ill.
I showed some restraint, at least, and chose only three kinds to purchase.
I bet I can fix his vendetta against desserts. Over time.
Assuming I have time. Hopefully, lots of it, which is my current working assumption. A shaky, unsure one. Though Wyatt did use the word love the night we kissed in the storm, it wasn’t in the form of I love you . And he hasn’t said it again.
Are we in a relationship? It feels that way.
And though I’m anxious to have a firm understanding of what we’re doing, I am equally anxious about knowing.
Every time I think about bringing it up, about dipping my toe into the water of that conversation, my stomach clenches with nerves and my tongue acts like it’s been frozen by a paralytic agent.
For now, I’m buoyant, existing in a very pleasant kissing limbo with worry banished to the edges. Mostly.
I might have a Google Doc of questions and topics to cover. But when we do talk, I’ll try to pose them naturally. Just in case creating a Google Doc of questions is the kind of thing that would scare Wyatt off.
“We’ve established that you don’t like candy,” I say as we pass a set of stairs so old and far from modern safety codes that it actually has a warning sign. “You don’t like looking at historic architecture. What do you like?”
Turning my way and capturing my gaze, he says, “The view.”
If someone had told me before this summer that Wyatt the Grouch could say sweet things, I’d never have believed it. I couldn’t even sell this story to a tabloid—not that I would, of course.
I steer us toward the shell shop, where I find about a dozen things I don’t need but really want, and he pets the owner’s dog.
Wyatt thinks he’s been sneaky, but I’ve caught him checking the doggy daycare’s webcam feed multiple times, glaring at his screen.
His features only soften when he catches sight of Jib.
“Stop putting things back,” Wyatt grumbles, appearing right next to me.
I startle and drop the shell I was holding back into the bin. “What?”
Wyatt picks it up and returns it to the basket I’m carrying. “I’ve been watching you put back all the things you’ve been carrying around. Stop it. Put them at the register.”
He’s using his bossy sailing voice, but I hesitate. “But I don’t need any of it. It’s just random stuff.”
His eyes are piercing. “Spoiling you isn’t about just taking care of what you need . It’s about taking care of what you need and then buying you everything you want. Because I can. And I want to. Get the shells, Josie.”
He crosses his arms, looking more fearsome than any man should while saying something so ridiculously sappy.
I could float right out of the store, but the part of me not used to this treatment still grapples with the idea of being spoiled, being taken care of.
“Are you sure that—”
His low rumble of protest has the store dog running over. She butts her head into Wyatt’s thigh, whining. I laugh, grabbing a few things I’d put back and scurrying over to the register. If the man insists...
After we drive away from the waterfront in our rented car, we stop to walk through one of the historic squares that Savannah is known for.
We eat fudge—yes, even Wyatt, begrudgingly— from the paper bag while sitting on a bench under a live oak draped with Spanish moss.
It’s wonderful, despite me sweating through my clothes.
I know my hair has taken on a life if its own in the humidity.
I miss the constant feel of wind in my hair while on the boat.
While a piece of dark chocolate mint fudge melts in my mouth, I briefly consider broaching the subject of the future. But I don’t want to ruin this lovely moment. Especially when Wyatt spends more time than he needs to kissing fudge from the corner of my lips.
“Maybe I don’t dislike all sweets,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I should definitely have bought more fudge.
Wyatt surprises me by taking us to Grayson Stadium, the home of the Savannah Bananas baseball organization. I follow the team on Instagram, but Wyatt doesn’t use social media. And other than his brief argument over basketball with Greg that one time, he hasn’t talked about sports other than hockey.
“How do you know about the Bananas?” I ask. “Are you even a baseball fan?”
“I don’t live in a cave, Rookie.”
“Debatable.”
“The social media manager for the Appies used them as inspiration.” He pauses. “I might have watched some of their videos on YouTube.”
When I gasp dramatically, Wyatt kisses me until I forget why I was teasing him in the first place.
Though the teams are out of town today, I’m giddy when a staff member with a bright smile is waiting to give us a private tour. This has my brother written all over it. Wyatt probably called him to call in a favor.
We get to sign the fan wall on the outfield and even go inside the locker rooms, where I sneak a picture of the caddy of toiletries next to the sinks.
Wyatt shakes his head at me. “Of all the things to take pictures of, why?”
“Because when will I ever have a chance to know what kind of deodorant the Savannah Bananas use,” I whisper.
“Are you going to take pictures of my deodorant?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he asks, sounding offended.
“Who’s to say I haven’t already done it?”
After he buys me half the gift shop and picks out a jersey for himself, Wyatt drives us to Tybee Island, where we eat delicious seafood on the upstairs deck of a crowded restaurant.
Ask him about it now , I tell myself as Wyatt cracks a crab leg, butter dripping down the back of his hand. Just ask how soon he’ll go back to Boston. And what he’s thinking about this. About us. Maybe he has a plan.
But maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe I won’t like the plan.
I don’t know what it looks like to be the girlfriend of a famous hockey player. Or how to do an adult relationship of any kind. A long-distance one, no less. So instead of asking questions, I eat hush puppies like they’re about to be discontinued.
Stuffed with amazing food, Wyatt and I walk hand in hand along the ocean, leaving our shoes by the beach access.
I squeeze his fingers and lean a little closer with a sigh.
We didn’t get to do this at Carolina Beach because we were busy pretending we weren’t together in front of Jacob, Eli, and Van.
But as we walk, the questions and worries I’ve been stuffing down grow larger, gathering like storm clouds.
How does a long-distance relationship work?
I barely have actual relationship experience.
Will I travel to see him? Does Wyatt have time to see anyone during the season?
Is he into phone calls or FaceTime? What about texting?
How will he respond if I send a string of GIFs?